


Caught in the web

by Yourdearestwatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Dom!Jim, Helpless Sherlock, Kink, M/M, Multi, Sub!John, Suspension, dubcon, noncon, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 19:08:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yourdearestwatson/pseuds/Yourdearestwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Moriarty kidnaps his favorite couple to prove a point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A good friend gave me this idea, I just sort of took off with it.

ooOoo

Darkness. 

That's all John knew.  
His sense of direction was off. What happened? He couldn't remember.  
Where was Sherlock? He tried to move his hand, but found that his arms were tied behind his back--his senses kicking in telling him that Jesus Christ, that _hurt_!They must have been twisted and contorted in a way that he was to be nothing but submissive; something that John Watson was not, save for a certain Consulting Detective.  
Other senses, John, he forced his brain to run into overdrive. His brain told him that his ankles were free. He moved them around to get a feel where he was when he realized: his feet were bare. Sense of touch told him that his toes were barely touching the cold (concrete?) ground. 

Was it because he was short?

He tried to stretch but found that his movements were very limited. To test this, John tried to wriggle and found that, yes, he could move but only just so. He moves his legs that told him that the rest of him was probably also nude. 

What the hell was going on? John tried to growl or say something like "Sherlock," but all that came out was a grunt. He couldn't frown, but his tongue could explore and found that his mouth was wedged open with something cold and tasted something like silver, or metal. John couldn't tell.  
John's deduction at this rate was that his eyes were covered by something like a large blindfold, his mouth was opened by a open-mouthed gag that only made him dribble when he tried to speak and most of all: John was likely suspended in the air, only just so. 

Why couldn't he remember? Sherlock usually didn't do something this extreme without telling John first, and John certainly didn't remember giving any sort of permission for something like _this._

It wasn't only moments before John came into acceptance with his situation with a light touch made his skin shiver. They were smaller than Sherlock's. Colder. 

Deduction: This was not Sherlock. 

This only made John wriggle--or try to--away from the foreign touch that only tusked at him as he did. 

"Johnny-boy," it scolded, and John stopped all together, rewarded with a gentle slap on the arse. 

No.  
No.  
 **No!**  
 _Anyone_ but **him!**

"Johnny-boy," the Irish brogue taunted, fingertips just barely grazing his flesh making him want to retreat in disgust, to tell the man to just fuck off and leave him alone--but he could not. "What's the matter, John?" The voice was away from him now, making John relax only slightly, not knowing what he was supposed to expect.  
"Oh, I know!" The voice was all over, impossible, but it seemed that this man--this psychopath was everywhere at one time, like something that John could not even begin to conceive before another slap to his arse make his thoughts go back onto track. 

"I'm not your darling Detective!" Moriarty finally licked his ear, teeth grazing the flesh ever so lightly. "Don't worry, Johnny," the breath danced on John's flesh as if it was trying to snake around and choke his neck with it's clutches. 

There was a moment were there was nothing--no sound, no Moriarty at his ear, and John craved for some sort of sound, to know what the hell was going on. To know what what going on--to have some idea. 

And all at once, another slap was commissioned to the bare flesh making John cry out and drool down his chin. "He's here too," Moriarty finally said. "Your boyfriend is tied to a chair naked as a jay-bird--with quite an impressive erection I might add--" This made John's stomach churn with hate and embarrassment. Sherlock was seeing John like this, as Moriarty's mercy(if there was such a thing,) making him _watch?_ John made himself focus on the words that danced around the room with Moriarty: 

"-- And he isn't blindfolded like you are," John could have winced when Moriarty cupped his cheeks with a firm hand and tried squishing the face around the open-mouthed gag until it was almost painful, ending with a slap to his left cheek. 

It wasn't hard for even John to deduce what has happened, his memory racing back to a hard blow to his head and the command of Moriarty to tie up both men and to transport them to--well, probably a warehouse, or somewhere even Sherlock couldn't deduce. 

John might not have been able to see, but he could hear Sherlock-- he knew that groan from any other. Was he turned on or was there something that John was missing? Sherlock was hissing now, and John knew: Jim had probably jerked with Sherlock's cock to make sure that Sherlock had stayed hard for however long they were doomed to be here.  
A hand met John's neck, making his body sway to where Moriarty wanted. 

"I'm going to have you, Johnny-boy," the voice said, pressed to his neck, licking the salty flesh, making John feel revolted at this, hating his hard he knew he was; how conditioned he was to be turned n by a situation where he was tied up and helpless. Damn you, Sherlock. The voice interrupted his thoughts again, "and your little boyfriend is going to watch me fuck you. Fuck his little pet." Teeth scraped his neck, making John squirm with anticipation and god, he hated himself now more than ever. 

"And by the time I'm through with you, Johnny-boy, you're going to beg to come for me." This was not a request, John realized. This was a part of a story that Jim had made in his mind and was now bringing to life with a demented giggle that twisted his stomach into a sick knot. "and when you do," the voice was lower, "you're going to look right at your darling boyfriend, showing him that you're not such a loyal pet but a filthy little come whore for daddy." The name made John want to vomit if his mouth wasn't wedged open, shaking it in refusal.  
"Oh." Jim sounded disappointed, "No?" He teased. "Maybe I should give you a little incentive, then?" John could see in his mind the manipulative little smile that the spider had given him once before. 

"If you don't, johnny boy," the breath was on his open mouth now, "if you don't do what I say, I'll take away your Darling Detective again. This time for good." John's blood ran cold at this.  
He wouldn't.

Would he?

John weighed the thoughts and hung his head in submission. Jim had won, making the man pat his face again. "That's a good boy," he taunted. "Now," there was a sound of a zipper dragging down, "let's start with this."

 

ooOOoo


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Sherlock threatened, and John tied in the air, there is nothing to do but just do as Moriarty says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to a friend that helped me with informing me how a spider gag works.

ooOOoo

More frightening of the things that john had to do was try to satisfy Moriarty. 

He didn't _want_ to satisfy Moriarty. He didn't love Moriarty, hell, John didn't even want to be in the same bloody room as the man. 

As a round, fleshy object met his tongue, he already snaked it inside, not wanting to taste Moriarty's cock. this got john a slap across the face, making him grunt and flick over the wet slit of what John knew as the head of an already half-hard penis. with the ring in his mouth, John couldn't do much but sloppily slobber and lick whatever flesh was distributed to him. Jim pressed on and no---!

That wasn't _possible!_

John's mouth started to widen--what was this fresh hell? His jaw cracked as it was widened to as wide as he could. Jesus, it hurt like fuck. His jaw needed relief, a crack, something, preferably to go back to it's normal place to being shut.  
Moriarty had a way of interrupting his thoughts of how damn uncomfortable he was, and his deductions as to what the hell John was wearing and what was happening. However, it was pretty damn obvious when john was forced to breathe through his nose when a thick cock entered his drooling mouth. 

Knowing that it wasn't Sherlock's long cock, John wanted to spit it out but didn't from the mere memory of a sniper's gun pointed at that beautiful mind that he adored so much so John accepted the cock that was practically fucking down his throat making him gasp and gag on it before it exited him sending John into a fit of coughs. Pain jolted through him as this hair was taken in a tight fist, tilting his head up, "don't close that pretty throat of yours, Johnny," Jim warned in a voice that was laced with lust and anger. "Suck Daddy's cock like a good little boy. It's all the lube you're going to get so make sure it's very _wet._ "

**NO!**

John _wished_ he could close his mouth, but he shut his eyes under the blindfold, wishing that he'd cry or sob, but he could only grunt and shake his head. 

_NO.  
 _NO!!!_ The only person who got to fuck John was Sherlock-- _only_ Sherlock!_

His thoughts, interrupted but a single thrust raping his throat violently with determination. His hair was still grabbed, and tears started to form on the edges of his eyes as Moriarty fucked his mouth. His ears burned to hear Sherlock, but heard nothing but his own grunts and groans--which, at this point John could not determine if they were angry or if they were aroused. If they got out of this alive, John would have to remember to ask if the difference was even relevant at the time. 

John lost time. 

Five minutes, twenty minutes, an hour? He didn't know. all he knew was that there was a cock invading Sherlock's territory. The cock was thick and hot, balls slapping against his chin--neck?-- John didn't know anymore. All he knew was that he wanted it to stop. It hurt so fucking much, having his mouth like this and the cock was nothing less than relentless down his--what was the medical term?-- Oh, fuck if he knew. It was his throat; Sherlock's throat that Moriarty was raping and now holding John in place as he nearly came, John could taste the threatening, salty seed but Moriarty pulled out just as violently as he thrust in, slapping John making his cheek burn and the hand that had so tightly held his hair left relieving John. 

Moriarty, however, did not loosen the mouth gag, leaving john's mouth painfully wide open, drooling over himself, groaning in pain as he wished that the spider would just fuck him and get it over with. 

Knowing him, John's brain sluggishly reminded him, that this was just where Jim was getting started. 

A pull at his cock that had gone flaccid at Moriarty's action. A pull, a yank, a seductive tease that oh god, he wished it was Sherlock so that the moan belonged to his lover, but it did not. the moan was for that bastard who was making him harder and harder as if Moriarty knew exactly how John liked to get a handjob ending with a painful slap on the cock rewarding Moriarty with a dissatisfied groan when the hand left the aching member before the hands returned with what John knew as a cock ring. 

"Now daddy's got you," Jim pulled at it again, teasingly, making sure that the ring was so tight that John's balls would not tighten without Jim's digression. You'll be daddy's little cock whore when I'm through. He's proud how wet you made his cock." Another slap to John's own cock making him whine with what almost sounded like a sob. Because, yes, that shit hurt. 

"You should see your little boyfriend," Jim taunted John's blindness but tracing the blindfold and reached to John's ear. "You know, I think he likes this, seeing you tied up and helpless like this. He's almost come himself from just me fucking your mouth like that--quite impressive self-control he's got." John could feel the smirk. The tease. 

"I wonder how much control his little pet has," he mused, and John knew that there was only more to come that just getting face-fucked was only the start of being trapped in the Spider's web. 

ooOOoo 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Control? What the fuck is that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I don't know how to control Moriarty. Sorry for the insanity.
> 
> Poor John.

ooOOoo

Control?

What the hell was that supposed to mean? John knew that Moriarty'd plan was to make John come for him, in front of Sherlock--to make him beg and plead in front of Sherlock.  
What more control did John need? He was already under the cold clutches of a cock ring, and his arms were painfully tied behind his back--what more could their possibly be? 

John honestly wished he never asked himself this question as cold hands stroked his arse cheeks. Finally. Moriarty was just going to get it over with and then they could just go home and forget it all. 

Of course it wasn't going to happen that way.

Jim's rough, cold hands jerked a leg up and connected it to another rope making John stand on only one foot now and the other stuck out as if he were a ballerina as the Criminal pat John's calf approvingly. "Now I can see that pretty little hole of yours," he teased a finger that made John intake a breath with how cold and rough the finger was on the sensitive ring of muscles that seemed to flex at the touch before there was nothing once more. john's mouth was still wide open and if anymore drool could dribble out, he'd surely make a puddle by now resulting in dehydration and---oh shit!

Pain jolted through his body as he couldn't place what just happened. It was too sharp to have been a slap, but not enough to have been a shock--deduction: Jim was whipping him with something. Either a riding crop or a whip, John couldn't tell because he couldn't fucking _see_. Each whip was more sharp than the next making John groan out with pain and, to much of his self hatred, pleasure.

Within what seemed like an eternity (or was it only twenty minutes?), John's arse felt like it was on fire. His eyes stung with tears that he refused to shed, he would never give Moriarty that power. Instead, his mouth had run dry and was no longer drooling out of the open hole that Moriarty had forgotten about. His throat still aching and heart pounding in his ears, he barely registered the last few whips that had met his flesh.

As if Moriarty knew that John had become numb, he'd discarded the whip to where John could only guess was near where Sherlock was tied at. There was nothing for some time, and John could only feel the sting of the angry marks that he now knew would welt for what may be the next week. John wished that his body could have a rest, seeing that his limbs were raw from the ropes and would probably have marks were they dug into him. 

John was starting to feel absent with no touch nor sound, and the only thing that he could smell was his own drool that had now crusted over his chin. He started to groan loudly, wondering if that was it. If Moriarty had left him there to hang and no Sherlock to come relieve him of the pain in his groin. Of course, to much of John's displeasure this was not the case. 

A wild tongue had plunged into his hole making every thought dissipate and leave him groaning in pleasure at the feeling of both being touched _and_ something so wet and so _talented_ inside of him.

A high pitched whine was coming from somewhere. Was it his own mouth or did his ears grant him access to a sound that belonged to his lover?   
"Oh," The spider sang from inside John's crack, nipping at the cheek, "sounds like your darling Detective likes what he sees."

It had been Sherlock! This comforted John only marginally until Jim's mouth had invaded him again, making more miserable (but very painfully aroused) moans come from his mouth. He _hated_ it! He hated how Jim knew that this was hot as fuck, he hated that he was aroused by skill of the muscle that was fucking him roughly. He hated that there was a cock rick ring on him, restricting him to Jim's mercy and most of all, he hated that he could hear Sherlock and how aroused he was; how helpless he was to either touch himself or touch John--or save him, John wasn't sure. 

It was a good while that Jim just explored John's hole, teasing and licking him before once again leaving his body craving more. How John hated himself above all things at the moment. He hated that, yes, this was so arousing, and that yes, he needed so bad to be fucked--to be satisfied. But in no way would John Watson give Jim Moriarty the power that belonged to only Sherlock Holmes. 

Having left John wishing that he could wriggle or do something that moved him around, Jim was making more grunting noises to where John figured Sherlock was. What was happening? Why did Sherlock sound distressed?--Or was it... Oh my god! Sherlock was moaning! He was grunting with pleasure! What the fuck was happening!? Why couldn't he see? Why would Sherlock moan for Moriarty? John let out a low growl from his mouth that was still opened and heard Jim's demented giggle. "Don't worry, Johnny boy, I'm only making sure that Sherlock gets a little, too. Why leave him out of the fun?" His face was taken again and finally the gag was coming off. He could hear the crack of his jaw as it was relived and was finally able to lick his very chapped lips. He tried to speak, but his throat wouldn't let him. It was sore and scratchy from when Jim abused it. Jim seemed to be pleased by this, patting John quite roughly on the cheek which he could now wince at. "I just want to see your expression, Johnny." 

The hand left him again and John was croaking, trying desperately to cry out for Sherlock, just to make sure that he was okay until he felt Moriarty back at his arse, smoothing over where he had cracked the whip too many times leaving him quite possibly bruised. 

"It's so pretty," Jim said quietly admiring the bare arse. "But you know what would make it better?" John winced. He didn't want to know, but in a few seconds, he could feel the cold hard object getting pressed inside of him, stretching him making him groan with pain with the lack of lube and the amount of butt plug that was now wedged inside of him. "A pretty glass plug," Jim continued, slapping a bruise that made John choke down a sob. "Don't worry," Jim added gleefully, "you'll get my cock once you beg for it. I can see by yours that you're not going to last much longer. You're going to have to let it go at one point." 

No.  
John wouldn't let that happen. John wasn't going to let Jim win, to let him prove whatever insane point that he was trying to make. Not until there was something at his nipples. The most sensitive point in John's body that sent pleasure through him as they were squeezed and prepared for what John knew would quite possibly the worst torture yet.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is as stubborn as he is fucked.

ooOOoo

If John was able, he would have been shaking violently by now. If his body was in a different body, there would have been snot and tears running down as Moriarty raped his entire being; but he was a soldier. He was John Hamish Watson, captain of the fifth Northumberland---Oh, _god_ \--who was he kidding? He could feel the snot at the end of his nose and tried to sniff it up, but his brain felt too dull, too slow. Too much stimulation that he so desired to ignore, but couldn't. He wished he could be numb, and just submit. He wished that the cold, sharp clamps didn't feel as good as they did. He wished that the added weights didn't draw that long, deep groan from his mouth that damn near rolled Jim's name off of his dry tongue until that it was almost painful rather than pleasurable. 

Nevertheless, John could feel the heave in his chest that was the familiar crash of a panic attack, the edges of being close to being a broken man in the most dangerous hands that could possibly be in existence, with the added thought that Sherlock was there but could not pick up the pieces after Moriarty would get his victory. 

The ring around his cock was enough to want to quit while Jim was ahead, but John tried. How he tried, and he knew that Sherlock could see that john was trying. But it was too much. 

All of it was too much.

Jim knew that John was close-- The air was filled with the stench of Moriarty's victory and of John's arousal. "Jooooo _ooooooo_ ooohny," sang the spider, taunting his breath on the arch of his back and licked near a bruise that was still stinging him. "You have to ask Daddy to come, Johnny," it taunted. 

Out of breath, John cracked.  
He nodded, "please," the voice was rough with arousal and even self hatred. "Please, Jim," he said and there was a tut, finally uncovering his eyes. 

LIGHT.

TOO BRIGHT. 

John had to shut his eyes. 

"Please," John pleaded, trying to ease his eyes open, and finally looked at Sherlock's face. 

Sherlock was aroused, John knew that face from any in his mind. He was not disappointed, but relieved that John was finally giving into Jim. That soon, this charade would be over and John would be with Sherlock again. He smiled weakly at his lover, before his face was struck by Jim. " **DON'T** smile at him like that!" He hissed. Oh. Jealousy. That much was clear. Jim was jealous of what Sherlock and John had. Jealous that he would never have nor understand what they had--or why John was so special to Sherlock in the first place. Jim forced the blindfold back on John making him whimper at the loss of seeing Sherlock's face, or anything at that moment. 

John had returned to being the broken man that he was only moments ago at the howl from Sherlock. "That, Johnny was for that little smile. Think I broke his pretty nose. Shame, I liked it." There was silence as john felt Jim's cold hands on his arse, spreading it. If John could have backed into it, he would have gladly, but he knew he had to beg. He knew that without his begging, that Jim wouldn't feel that he had won. 

"I want daddy's cock." It tasted like ash in his mouth. He hated it. _Sherlock_ usually held that title between the pair while they had sex, while they played in the bedroom, enjoying this.   
This, was not enjoyable. 

"Sorry," Jim taunted, now rutting his hot cock between the cheeks of his arse, "daddy didn't hear you. Loud and clear like a good little soldier." 

"I WANT YOUR COCK, DADDY!" John whined loudly, feeling the large, jagged cock enter him dryly and his yell could have shook the warehouse that housed the men that currently abode inside: one was helpless, one was being raped and the other had a large grin on his face as he thrust in the doctor's arse as if he had just won the world on a golden platter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point I'm 1000000000% done with John at this point.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty won the battle, or so he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was extremely painful to write, so I'm sorry if this chapter is disappointing. I'll probably come back and re-do it someday.

ooOOoo

John had never felt so much pain in his life. He was not able to wrap his mind around how quick Moriarty had took out the plug and replaced it with his cock--it was like a swift, choreographed movement with perfect practice. For once, he thought that Jim had done him a justice by re-blindfolding him--at the same time, with the lack of his sight it added to the intensity that John could really do nothing but yell out in pain. He wanted it to stop: The pain from the weights that jerked his nipples down every time Moriarty thrust in roughly, the pain from the ropes that rubbed against his wrists, legs and back (and probably other places that he just could not register.) . 

Most of all, all of John's senses focused on the pain that came from the member that was driving into his very being. Usually, this was enjoyable. This was part that John _liked._ However, the man was doing it wrong, it was all not right. It was too dry--too uncomfortable making John wince every time all the combined pains building up to where he hated himself the most: his very painful cock that needed to have release from the cock ring. 

It didn't take John long, and he hated the words coming from his mouth, begging and screaming for Moriarty to take the ring off so the torture could end--but it wasn't enough. Moriarty kept on denying John no matter how much he'd plead and John could hear sympathy (or aroused) groans from Sherlock before his ears burned with sweat or blood or--he wasn't even sure. 

Finally, there was a release inside of him, marking him where only Sherlock was allowed to mark. Nevertheless, this man took it. he had taken everything that was precious to John and the relationship he had with his lover. He had tried to make some insane point that John honestly no longer cared about.

Even though John could feel what Jim left inside of him, the man had not relented in his movements. Thankfully, because of his release this had become marginally less painful for John and he was able to put his mind in a spot where he'd become numb.

Where every groan, clink or taunt had just become sounds. Where his cock had become the center of his nerve system, making tears and snot crust over his face and the words from his mouth had become muffled with the other sounds into what sounded like his own heartbeat: slow, steady and surprisingly, john felt like this would be the end of him. That this was what Moriarty wanted. Not just to fuck him until he was begging, maybe that wasn't the point. Perhaps john's simple mind missed the _actual_ point. the actual point being that Moriarty was going to burn the heart out of Sherlock at any cost. That Moriarty would have his revenge (for something that john wasn't even sure was a sane rationalization,) and his revenge would be to stop John's heart, to over ride it with all this stimulation and denial. To show that even the impossible could be done at his hands and, god forbid, could do whatever he pleased with whomever he pleased.

Maybe, in the end, Sherlock's heart was his own that was slowing as his reactions started to get more and more sluggish to the point he barely registered the shot that made him cry out--slur out?-- _you **promised** , you bastard--you said you wouldn't hurt him! _

But there was nothing but silence and the loss of movement and John's brain was finally able to catch up and his heart started to rise with panic instead of being numb. It took John longer than usual to realize that there was a dead weight on him, making him swing only slightly and it was then when a few things had dawned on him:

> There was a cock buried inside of him, quite painfully so. As if it didn't know what it was doing in there.  
> The shot had come from not where he knew the sniper would have been--  
>There actually could have never _been_ a sniper since no shot followed the first.  
> Hands were now trying to remove the weight that was on his back

Which meant something entirely new that john wouldn't have considered until there was a careless thud and skillful hands started to untie his bonds:

There was a dead man on the floor that once housed the soul of one late Jim Moriarty. 

And the hands that now helped John's leg down and started on more ropes (and muffled words that John could still not quite make out)belonged to none other than Sherlock Holmes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock picks up the pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much! I've had a lot of people keep tabs on this fic, and had very encouraging comments. i hope that this ending satisfies you as much it does me.

ooOOoo

Falling. 

John was falling. 

It was a sinking feeling, his knees giving into the weight they forgot that they once bore almost giving completely into the laws of gravity before a strong arm grabbed his middle holding him just above what he could smell as his own drool from before. He still couldn't see, but he could feel the tugs and pulls of the ropes that started to loosen and set free his arms that drooped down as if they also forgot how to function. It couldn't have possibly been that long that John was under Moriarty's clutches. Was it? He wasn't sure what day or what time it was anymore nor did he find it particularly relevant. 

All he knew was that Sherlock was impossibly there, and he was being delicately handled as the man sat him on what John could tell was a freezing concrete floor. There was a tug at John's blindfold, gingerly taking it off so that whatever light entered, John could adjust to before his eyes were rewarded by a blood-crusted face of his lover. 

John's brain may have been sluggish, but he knew a broken nose when he saw one, Moriarty had been right: that beautiful long nose would likely now end up crooked or slanted only just so if not treated soon. However, large, warm hands started to check John from head to toe.

Words. 

What were they saying? They were forming, but John couldn't understand. Why couldn't he understand--comprehend? Did his brain still not catch up to itself? He knew he was in a state of trauma when Sherlock looked at him like _that._

He was tired, his head was heavy and it felt like a whole other reality while Sherlock seemed to be cleaning John up.. Did he expel the Criminal's seed? He couldn't tell. He just knew that Sherlock's hands were very welcomed at the release of the cock ring making john moan out Sherlock's name; which, strangely he was rewarded with a kiss to the forehead that he took as permission from Sherlock and came everywhere, finally happy to release the tension that Moriarty refused to release.

Finally.

John was free. John could see, and from the very silent undertones of Sherlock's groans, he figured that his hearing returned as well, rewarded but Sherlock's voice repeating John's name until he was able to focus and look at him with curious and silent eyes. "Are you okay?"

How was John supposed to answer that? His throat was sore, his body hurt and he wanted to shower for days. Of course he wasn't fucking okay!! 

John merely shook his head, his eyes slowly looking to the body of Jim and then back at Sherlock who was smirking.

This was one of the moments that John was glad that they barely needed to talk--he didn't want to talk. He was afraid it would only come out in grunts or incoherent strings of nothings that would only gain him an insult from Sherlock. 

"Remember when Moriarty said that I had an impressive erection?" John couldn't remember, to be honest, but nodded to avoid needing to remember anything that had happened with that man in this place they were in. "Well, one of us had to remember your gun." But how? John demanded in his mind. Jim had said that Sherlock was tied up, and that there had been snipers pointing their guns at Sherlock who was shaking his head. 

"Moriarty didn't tie me himself," Sherlock explained to much of John's pleasure of not needing to speak, but nod in understanding. "And honestly, I've never seen so many sloppy knots in all my years." He shook his head as if this was something to laugh at. 

Why didn't John laugh with Sherlock? He always laughed or giggled with Sherlock. A warm hand met his cheek, making John wince but finally look in the what seemed to be strangely soft eyes of Sherlock. John rarely saw this look. it was usually reserved for when Sherlock didn't want to apologize but knew his eyes would make John crumble--but Moriarty already took care of that. He was already a damn broken man what else did Sherlock want. 

A thumb gently traced what john could now identify as bruises. Maybe Sherlock actually felt regret. 

Would this be a thing that Sherlock Holmes could feel?

Fuck if John knew. 

All he knew was that the gentle touch was comforting, knowing that yes, Sherlock was here and that he was now safe. 

A week after everything was settled and it was confirmed that Moriarty was not returning, John still wouldn't talk much to anyone that wasn't his lover; but even Sherlock still would not be allowed to touch John's sore and abused body. His usual warm and loving presence had become weary and only Sherlock would be around him if not to hand the man his favorite cup of tea. 

It took months for John to recover. Every day more difficult than the other, but in the end he ended up back in Sherlock's bed and not on the couch where he was nothing but miserable. It had taken even longer for John to allow Sherlock to reclaim John's body--but not in a violent way. Anytime Sherlock would suggest going back to their old ways of rough sex, John would refuse and tell Sherlock he was going for a bath (that usually lasted about an hour as if the warm water could steam away the memory of what happened and John could just go back to normal.)

 

Normality. 

Normality was something that John long forgot the definition for--if he even could have grasped in in the first place. 

But even Sherlock seemed to know that Moriarty had left his mark, as he intended. 

John would return to himself, eventually. He would be his cheery self when they went out, his sarcastic and snarky remarks would be thrown at Sherlock as their relationship would mend and the memory of Moriarty would be nothing more than just that. 

A memory.


End file.
